


The Scent of Sorrow

by LazuliAlekto



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Confessions, Confused Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Roach Has the Brain Cell (The Witcher), Sassy Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:22:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27364969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazuliAlekto/pseuds/LazuliAlekto
Summary: ...Oh, yes, Geralt of Rivia was well acquainted with the scent of sorrow, and he had never been more distressed by that fact than when he saw Jaskier’s shoulders slump.  The way the light dimmed in his eyes, his mouth turned down.  Throwing away his bard like he’d been thrown away as a child by a mother he could only remember in the barest glimpses.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 20
Kudos: 275





	The Scent of Sorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Dh’oine: Human  
> Aen Seidhe: Elf  
> Cambion: half or part Incubus or Succubus
> 
> Drawn mostly from the Netflix adaption, ignoring the book canon in regards to Geralt and Yennefer, because I can.  
> Geralt is a little more verbose like his game and book counterpart, but just as sweary as ever.

Geralt of Rivia knew the scent of sorrow. Petrichor, lichen, thick like molasses as it dripped into one’s soul. As a child, life had been hard, but he hadn’t tasted sorrow until the day _she_ left him at the roadside like so much discarded trash for a Witcher to take up and shape into something he no longer recognised. Sorrow dogged his footsteps as he traversed the continent, slaying monsters for coin, called one himself. Sorrow had seeped from Renfri, infecting his skin with it, coating him like a layer of her blood. The blood had long washed away, but the sorrow had remained.

He found sorrow in the wails of a newly made widow, the blank eyes of a child, the thousand yard stares of men tortured. Heard it hiding under the anger in Calanthe’s voice as she told him to fuck off and forget about his Child Surprise. Heard it in the whispers that told of Pavetta’s demise.

Saw it boiling and roiling under Yennefer’s resigned anger as she stalked away from him. Laced in Borch’s tone as he admonished him.

Then the bright chirp of a songbird had sliced through his riotous thoughts, spurring him to anger, making him spit untruths.

Sorrow.

Sorrow where there should be none.

Oh, yes, Geralt of Rivia was well acquainted with the scent of sorrow, and he had never been more distressed by that fact than when he saw Jaskier’s shoulders slump. The way the light dimmed in his eyes, his mouth turned down. Throwing away his bard like he’d been thrown away as a child by a mother he could only remember in the barest glimpses.

“Fuck,” he hissed as Jaskier’s footsteps faded away, the scent of sorrow trailing behind him like smoke. Dissipating on the breeze. Vanishing like the scent of Jaskier’s oils. On his skin. In his hair. Permeating his clothing.

Permeating his _own_ clothing, his bedroll, the pack he kept his potions in. A mixture of scents he’d become accustomed to. Would miss. As much as he would deny that. Even to himself.

“Destiny has more in mind for you than just the cub, Geralt,” Borch said quietly from behind him.

Geralt bristled anew. “Destiny can fuck itself.” A mixture of guilt, craving for forgiveness and a melancholy sense of failure tore at him, making him snap all over again. Feeling things was shitty. Destiny had done nothing but fuck him over, time and time again. He was desperately tired of being Destiny’s bitch, but none of that made any of it Jaskier’s fault. The bard was perfectly capable of getting into his own scrapes, yet Geralt knew he was entirely to blame for the situation he found himself in.

The Golden Dragon chuckled, “be that as it may, Witcher, she is a bitch that can’t be denied, however much you wish it. You’ve lost your Sorceress, it would be…best if you did not lose your bard.”

Geralt’s head snapped around to glare at Borch, “what does that mean?” Gods, why did everyone have to be so bloody obtuse?

“He is important to you.” Borch rose from his seat of rock and stared out over the mountain, “have you never wondered in the _decades_ that your bard has been at your side, why it is he looks no older than the day you met him? Dh’oine age faster than most other species, do they not?”

Geralt glanced back the way Jaskier had gone, scowling. He did a quick calculation, brows raising momentarily when he realised that the bard had to be close to forty, despite not showing it. But, still… “He’s human, of that I am sure. I would have scented something _other_ on him…”

“Would you?” Borch drawled, unimpressed by the surety in Geralt’s tone. “The Aen Seidhe are diluted, mostly. Plenty of half breeds among them. But he is not just that either. His blood contains something else. Being part elf is hardly uncommon, yet it lends itself to easier mingling of other blood.”

“Speak plainly if you are capable of it. I tire of riddles, Borch,” Geralt spat, struggling to hide his annoyance and failing dismally if Borch’s wry grin was any indication. “As you say, being part elf is hardly uncommon.”

Borch sighed, “I cannot be completely sure, however, his proclivities speak to me of what that other part is. Think on it, Geralt. And don’t let him get too far away from you. He needs you as much as you need him.”

Geralt snorted derisively. “He’s a philandering lecherous bard, that is all.” No, no, he wasn’t _just_ anything, only his pride made him say that. Regardless, he refused to examine everything that Jaskier _was_. That way led to _things_ he had no wish to dwell on right at that moment.

Borch strolled away, cocking his head like an inquisitive bird. “Lecherous, you say?” He chuckled, “yes, I do believe he is.”

He thought a moment, spinning to call after Borch, “ _Cambion_.”

“Just the smallest part,” Borch confirmed holding his fingers apart just a sliver, eyes crinkling as he grinned at Geralt. “And unaware of it I would guess. Not the least bit dangerous.”

Geralt watched him leave, tailed by Tea and Vea, then glanced back up the trail where Jaskier had disappeared. Cambion. Part incubus. Mixed with Aen Seidhe. He scowled again, sure that Jaskier must surely be mostly human. Somewhere down the line, an elf half breed had lain with a succubus or incubus. And then later, the child that had resulted from that union had grown and lain with a human. Or something to that effect. It did explain the aging, and the whorish behaviour. His ability to seduce almost anyone into his bed. The magnetic draw he seemed to possess despite the utter nonsense that spilled from his mouth.

But none of that meant Jaskier was immune to being hurt or falling off the bloody mountain, especially in the state he’d been in when he left. Which was his fault.

“Fuck.” He had to fix that. Jaskier was his friend, regardless of never admitting it, regardless of all else, he was his friend. He’d already fucked up far too much.

_“Damn it, Jaskier. Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you shoveling it?”_

_“That’s not fair.”_

_“The Child Surprise, the Djinn, all of it. If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”_

_“Right. Ah, right then. I’ll…I’ll go get the rest of the story from the others. See you around, Geralt.”_

Geralt winced, remembering the scent that had enveloped him with Jaskier’s departure. He gathered his pack, shouldering it, heading down the path. The one path now, down the mountain, scenting the breeze, searching for Jaskier. No shortcuts for either of them.

It took him much longer than he expected to catch wind of the bard, mildly impressed by the pace he had set to get so far ahead. It made him smile until the scent of that deep sorrow filled his nostrils. Tinged with something else. Anger. No, fury. The scent of sulphur. Ash. 

By the time Geralt reached Roach he was beginning to panic a little. He still hadn’t found Jaskier, the scent still faint, indicating the bard had been in a hurry to get as far from him as possible. There was no fear there. Never had been. Jaskier was one of the very few that had not once been afraid of him, even when he’d seen him with black eyes, in the throes of his potions. Geralt had taken that for granted after a while, simply accepting that Jaskier was stupid enough to not know how to be scared. But that wasn’t true, no more than the words he spat at him on the mountain. Jaskier had been afraid at times, just never of him. 

He grunted as he mounted Roach, patting her neck and urging her into a trot in the direction of Jaskier’s scent.

The time it took him to get down the mountain had given him plenty of time to think. Think about what the bard meant to him, why he was so hell bent on finding him, making things right between them.

Why he hadn’t once thought of Yennefer in all that time.

Why it destroyed him to know he’d caused Jaskier so much pain.

What he’d told Yennefer about Witchers emotions held true. He felt things, far more deeply than most bothered to discover. What he felt for Jaskier was a tangle. Something he would be sure to ponder, but first he needed to find him.

It was dusk, almost bleeding into full night before he spotted a familiar red jacket and breeches ahead, spurring Roach on to catch up.

“Jaskier,” he called out once he was within hailing distance.

The bard ignored him. Or rather, refused to acknowledge him. He’d heard, the set of his shoulders stiffening, but his pace increased, adjusting his lute, bedroll hanging from his hand, resolutely staring ahead.

“Jaskier, please.”

The bard whirled around as Geralt brought Roach to a halt, blue eyes blazing. Watching warily as Geralt slid from Roach’s back and stepped closer.

“Fuck you, you whoreson. You absolute utter prat. Fuck you!” He pointed at Geralt, “I’m fucking leaving! You got what you want, so fuck you.” He spun back around, resuming his angry stalking along the path.

Geralt pursed his lips, tightening his hold on Roach’s reins, “I’m sorry,” he said as he followed. “I’m sorry, Jaskier.”

Jaskier huffed, puffing up like an indignant cat, “and that’s supposed to make it all better, I suppose?” He laughed bitterly. “I am afraid I have to inform you that it really does _not_ make it all better. Sorry to disappoint you, yet again. You talk of shoveling shit, yet you’re the one shoveling it on me at every bloody opportunity, and I am just meant to take it.”

“No,” Geralt insisted. “No, you shouldn’t.” He matched Jaskier’s pace, not daring to touch him. 

“Damn fucking right, I shouldn’t. But I do, or I did. No more. I can’t. D’you hear me, Geralt of Rivia? I _can’t_ do it any more.” He sucked in a breath, rounding on Geralt suddenly, expression closed off, bringing Geralt to a halt in the middle of the path as he endured the bard’s ire. He was one of the few people Geralt would tolerate that from, remembering another time that he’d been berated. ‘ _You need a nap!’_ It made him wince. That had been his fault too. “I have been following you around like a kicked cur for _years_ , Witcher, trying to improve your image so you wouldn’t be bloody stoned in each town or city you entered, making sure you got the coin that was owed you. Making sure they didn’t cheat you. Tending your wounds. Putting up with your moods every time that bitch left you. Staying silent when she made you suffer, but _I’m_ the one shoveling shit?”

Geralt hung his head, “no, it’s all my fault. You’ve been good to me, far better than I deserve, and I wish I knew why…”

Jaskier gaped at him, then snapped his mouth shut, glowering. “Are you truly that dense?” Geralt lifted his gaze to see the bard staring at him incredulously. “You really _don’t_ know, do you? Gods!” Jaskier threw his hands in the air, beseeching said Gods. He slung his lute case off his shoulder and slumped down onto the verge, shaking his head.

The scent of sulphur and ash bled away, leaving the petrichor behind. Geralt frowned, letting go of Roach’s reins to crouch beside the bard, trying to look into his face and see if that gave him a clue as to what Jaskier meant. Roach wandered a few paces away to graze, Geralt reaching out tentatively to touch Jaskier’s shoulder.

The bard’s expression was mournful when he glanced up at Geralt, making him shrink back.

He thudded down on to his knees, “please, Jask. Please, let me make things right.”

Jaskier scrubbed his hand over his face, looking away. “I’m not sure you can, Geralt. I know you wall up your emotions, hide them so you don’t get hurt, and Gods, I have made allowances for that. But when they do bleed out, I’m the one who takes the brunt of it.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Geralt said softly. “I’m not even sure why I do that to you.” He closed his eyes, tipping his head back, trying to sort it out in his head so he could explain. Jaskier deserved the words. “You’ve never been afraid of me, you tell me when I’m being a shit, never shy away when I’m a mess. I…maybe I…can let go around you, because I trust you. But, that’s not fair on you, I know that.” He shifted to sit beside Jaskier. “The last time I let go like that…I hurt you…the Djinn. That was all my fault, because I was ignoring what I’d done in Cintra, I couldn’t sleep…and that wasn’t your fault either. I could have asked for something else, _anything_ else.”

Jaskier sat silently, listening.

“So, you feel safe around me?” he murmured and Geralt frowned.

Yes. That was it. He felt safe with Jaskier for whatever reason. “Yeah, I think so. I don’t have to…protect myself around you.” Even after what Borch had told him, he still felt safe with Jaskier. “You take care of me, even when I think I don’t need it. No-one has ever done that for me before. You touch me and I…I like it, I miss that touch. I miss it when we aren’t together.”

“That’s…” Jaskier trailed off. “I miss you too,” he admitted eventually, head down.

Geralt latched on to that, reaching down for Jaskier’s hand, “then stay with me. Don’t go. I didn’t mean it, Jask, really. I promise to do better.”

A deep sigh left Jaskier, “I forgive you, Geralt.” His eyes find the Witcher’s, frowning at the hope he saw there. “But…I don’t know if I can stay with you. I feel safe with you too, I do. But my heart isn’t. Hasn’t been since I met you, and I thought I could deal with it, deal with you going back to _her_ time and time again…”

“I’m not going back to Yennefer,” Geralt blurted. He ignored the weird feeling the bard’s other words created in his chest. He wasn’t even sure why he told Jaskier about that, but it had felt like the right thing to do.

Jaskier pulled his hand away, burying both in his hair, head hanging low, “well, I am not sure that even matters, really.”

The hope that Jaskier might stay started to fade, leaving an ache he had no way to parse. But it felt…awful. “Why?” he asked, desperate.

Jaskier snorted bitterly. “Because she’ll come back, or you’ll meet and…” He waved his hand uselessly. “And even if you don’t tumble back into bed with her, there will be others.”

Geralt scowled. Why were they talking about this? “You visit whores too. You sleep with barmaids and stable boys, anyone that throws you a wink.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, “yes, because I can’t have what I truly want, Geralt. Not that you could give it to me. I’ve never seen you…” He broke off, shaking his head again. “It matters not.”

Ah. The scent of lust that he’d often scented on Jaskier. Had that been because of him?

“You want me to fuck you?”

Jaskier laughed, slightly deranged. “Of course I want you to fuck me, I have peppered our conversations with innuendos for years. I have flirted with you, I have told you that I would be willing…”

“What?” Geralt grabbed his hand. “What? When?”

“Only all the bloody time,” Jaskier hissed at him, thoroughly exasperated. “But it truly does not matter. You don’t bed men, and that’s not all I want…”

“Where did you get that idea?” Geralt raised a brow, “did you think I found you bedding stablehands and smiths abhorrent? I envied that freedom. I…I have to be careful in that respect. Humans already barely tolerate me, what would they do if I were fucking their men as well as their whores? Doesn’t mean I haven’t.”

Jaskier groaned, “Gods, that almost makes it worse. So, you didn’t want me, because you weren’t attracted to me, not just because I didn’t have the right parts.”

The Witcher grabbed his shoulders, turning him to look at him properly, “I never said that, Jaskier. I…I didn’t know that you were offering. I thought you just spoke like that to everyone.” He bit his lips, brow furrowed. “I…have thought about it.”

Blue eyes widened, Jaskier’s mouth dropped open.

“I go to whores because I don’t know how to flirt my way into someone’s bed. Unless someone actively grabs my dick, I have no clue when they want me.”

Jaskier moaned, dropping his head to his knees, “Gods.” His fingers tangled in his brown hair, tugging, “my mind is reeling.” Then he shivered, wrapping his arms around himself.

“We…we should make camp. Get you warm.” He winced, “talk more, if you want.”

That got the bard to lift his head and look askance at him, “you, more talking? You truly are trying to make things right, aren’t you?”

He nodded, “yes. And I want to understand. There’s something you aren’t saying.”

Jaskier went quiet at that but allowed Geralt to pull him to his feet, followed when Geralt led them to a small clearing not far from the path, his protective instinct flaring. It was too late to really hunt and he didn’t feel inclined to leave Jaskier alone, so he lit a fire and pulled some travel provisions from his pack and shared them with Jaskier, passing a wineskin between them. Watching intently every distracted bite that the bard took.

Jaskier was still curiously silent, not even humming, as he stared into the flames. The scent of sulphur was completely gone, but the petrichor and lichen remained, though less prevalent. Even Geralt could tell he was confused and mulling over what they had discussed. He wasn’t alone there. Geralt was just as confused. And a little suspicious about what Jaskier was holding back.

He sat brooding, huffing to himself as he remembered the bard’s first words to him. Then something else he’d said. ‘ _I’d give you my chastity. If I still had it_.’ Fuck. He _had_ been flirting with him.

“The thing I haven’t said, at least, not in so many words,” Jaskier murmured, knowing Geralt would hear him. Blue eyes flitted to his for a moment, his face looking so boyish in the firelight. So young, Geralt could almost believe he was unsullied, despite the fact he knew very much to the contrary. “It’s the true reason I have followed you for so long.” Put up with the terrible treatment was left unsaid, but Geralt heard it nonetheless. Even if Jaskier hadn’t intended it that way.

“Not for the songs,” Geralt said softly.

“No, not for the songs,” Jaskier confirmed. His bard sighed, “what I am about to say will ruin our friendship more irrevocably than anything you do, Geralt.”

Geralt wanted to deny that, but Jaskier was so morose he held his tongue for a moment. “What if I promise it won’t?”

With a despondent shake of his head, Jaskier looked away. “You can’t promise me that. I’d rather not have the false hope it would bring only for it to be ripped to shreds within minutes.”

“Jask…”

Jaskier held up his hand to halt his protest. “I love you,” he whispered.

“You…you _love_ me,” Geralt parroted like a fool. “Why?”

Jaskier blinked at him, utterly dumbfounded. “Why? Why wouldn’t I? That would be the better question. As much of an arse as you can be, you are also the kindest man I have ever met. Have you never _listened_ when I sing, Geralt? You’re loyal and fierce. Principled. Noble.” He glanced away, “beautiful.” He sighed again as Geralt sat silently digesting what his words meant. “There is no need to say anything, I know you could never love me in return. I’ve never expected that.” His breath hitched, “I’ll depart in the morning, you’ll never see me again.”

The fire crackled as Geralt sat, stunned. “I still don’t want you to leave,” he said quietly after several minutes of contemplation.

Jaskier startled at his words, staring at the side of his head, “what?”

Turning to look at Jaskier, he offered a smile, small though it was. “I don’t want you to leave me. Witcher’s speak with actions, I think you know that. I’m shit with words, you know that too. I won’t say that I love you, but I won’t say that I _don’t_ love you. That I couldn’t. I’m not sure exactly what it is that I feel, but I care for you. I try to protect you, even if it’s from yourself. I worry about you when we aren’t together. I miss the scent of you.” He slid his hand close to Jaskier, “that is the worst part, I think, when we aren’t together. The moment your scent fades completely. Scent is…important to me. You’re careful about it. For me. Yen smells of lilacs and gooseberries, always the same thing, always overwhelming. But you, you smell of sun warmed fields when you’re happy. Then there’s the scent of cinnamon when you’re horny. Sulphur and ash when you’re angry. The scent of earth after rain when you’re sad.” He scooted a little closer, taking Jaskier’s hand in his turning it over to trace his palm and then each slender finger down to the calloused tips. “Your hands, Jask. Fuck, your hands, they’re so gentle. Strong, but gentle.” He sucked in a deep breath, “I…I am not used to gentle.”

“You deserve a little gentleness,” Jaskier whispered, searching his gaze, eyes brimming with unshed tears, lacing their fingers together tentatively. “You say you’re shit with words, but you just proved what I have always known. You reserve your words, Geralt. Nothing frivolous comes out of your mouth. Sometimes you are harsh, but never truly cruel. Well, not on purpose,” he added with a little quirk of his lips. He twisted to face Geralt properly, reaching up slowly to cup his cheek and he found himself leaning into it, inhaling Jaskier’s scent. A mixture. Warm fields, petrichor fading.

Geralt covered Jaskier’s hand with his own, closing his eyes for a moment. Yes, this felt right. The warm field scent strengthened, a hint of cinnamon blending with it making him grin. He turned his head, letting his lips glance over Jaskier’s palm, then nuzzled it.

“Stay, with me. Let me try.”

Jaskier nodded eventually. “You could have left me behind, so many times. Simply slipped away when I slept, let me wake with you gone, but you never have.”

“Mmm,” Geralt agreed, hand sliding from Jaskier’s still on his cheek, back up into his hair, so soft. “I want to kiss you.” He shifted closer, their noses brushing. “Can I?”

Jaskier whined, low, deep in the back of his throat, tipping his face up a little so their lips ghost together. “If you don’t I may just expire on the spot, Geralt.”

He could not help the growl that left him, trying, _trying_ , to be gentle as he pressed his lips to Jaskier’s. And it does start that way, sweet, so sweet that Geralt blithely wonders how he missed out on this for so long. Then Jaskier turns it dirty and Geralt curses himself soundly for being a blind fool. It’s possessive and feral and so thoroughly Jaskier that Geralt simply doesn’t know even what to do with his hands other than cling to his bard like his life depends on it. 

Maybe it does.

All the idle wondering that he indulged in when he wasn’t overwhelmed by Yennefer is blown completely out of the water by the reality of Jaskier kissing him like he’s trying to climb inside him. The scent of cinnamon bloomed in his nostrils, Jaskier shuffling a little closer so that they are almost pressed together, tentative while his mouth is not. Geralt growled, tangling his tongue with his bard’s, showing him that he’s far from repulsed. In truth, he’s eager, his cock plumping in his breeches, pressing against the laces insistently.

Jaskier hasn’t made a move to draw them closer Geralt realised after long moments of them kissing rather desperately. He’s waiting. Waiting for Geralt to make a move, show him that it’s something he wants, not something he thinks he should give to Jaskier. Sucking on his bard’s tongue, Geralt slid one hand out of Jaskier’s hair, finding a hand floundering near his hip and grasped it, tugging until it was positioned over his own erection. Poised for a moment, then pulled gently so that Jaskier’s palm met the hard line of him.

Jaskier groaned into Geralt’s mouth, the scent of cinnamon spiking as his fingers, clever, clever fingers, traced the outline of his cock.

_See, I do want you_.

Geralt let his own hand drop away as Jaskier fondled him, shuffling closer as the kiss continued, cock jumping against Jaskier’s hand. He growled, letting both hands slip down to his bard’s pert arse, squeezing, rutting into the hand that is starting to tug at the laces of his breeches.

He pulled his mouth away from Jaskier’s as he felt the first tentative stroke to his cock, gasping for air. His hand was so warm, calloused tips of his fingers gliding over his shaft and then exploring the head. He felt dizzy with want, his own hands sliding to the front of Jaskier’s breeches to pull them open enough to get his hand in, crashing his mouth to Jaskier’s frantically.

Jaskier mewled into Geralt’s mouth, hips rutting into his hand, gasping when Geralt sucked his lip in between his teeth. Something visceral sparked in the Witcher, one hand working in the front of Jaskier’s breeches, his other snaking around and into the back, flirting down the crack of his arse. Jaskier jolted in his grasp, rocking forward and back, eager and wanting. The kisses rapidly turned filthy as they stroked each other, urgency colouring each and every tug of their fists, Geralt’s finger teasing at Jaskier’s rim.

“I want to fuck you,” Geralt murmured into Jaskier’s mouth. “I want you to fuck me.”

Jaskier whined, ripping his mouth away to pant harshly, pressing their foreheads together and Geralt can feel his perspiration slick against his skin. “Please…”

Geralt nuzzled at Jaskier’s cheek, the hint of stubble rasping against his own, teeth nipping at Jaskier’s earlobe. “Want to bite you, mark you, make you mine. Want my scent all over you, want yours all over me.”

A high pitched keening noise left the bard, his mouth seeking out Geralt’s again, opening like a flower, his tongue flicking desperate and urgent against Geralt’s, hips feverish. “Geralt, please…” he whined between kisses.

Geralt pressed against the tight ring of muscle under his finger tip, feeling the clench and give but not pushing in. Not without oil. Not here where he can’t properly appreciate his bard.

No matter how eager Jaskier is for it. Geralt is just as eager, but Jaskier deserves better and he wants to give it to him.

“We’ll find an inn, a room where I can take you apart, Jask.” He tightened the curl of his fist around Jaskier’s cock, feeling an answering tightening around his own. “Use my fingers to open you up, or you could use yours, I don’t care, I just want you.” He twisted his fist on the upstroke, feeling Jaskier’s cock start to pulse, the bard’s breath hot against his lips. He heard the thundering of his pulse, heard it stutter, Jaskier shuddering, then tensing before warmth spread over his fingers as Jaskier moaned into his mouth.

He pulled away to look at his bard, delighted by his rosy cheeks, dazed blue eyes, kiss bitten lips parted as he panted. The way his eyes widened as Geralt gently withdrew his hand and licked away the evidence of his orgasm.

“Fuck,” Jaskier hissed, shoving Geralt back onto his bedroll and looming above him like a predator. Geralt laughed breathlessly, then gasped as his bard swooped down, engulfing his cock with his warm mouth.

Geralt tipped his head back, exposing his throat, mouth open as he let Jaskier suck at him. Oh, what a talented mouth his bard had, a wicked tongue that curled around him, pressed up against the underside in a slow slide. There were not many that bothered to even try that with him, and he was reluctant to ask as it often took too much cajoling just to get a whore to agree to take his coin, and Yennefer had been far more interested in her own pleasure. Jaskier sucking his cock was a revelation. He shifted up onto his elbows to watch, groaning at Jaskier’s hollowed cheeks as he suckled, lips stretched wide, glistening in the firelight. But it was his eyes, intense and locked on Geralt’s that tipped him over the edge, spurting his seed into his bard’s willing mouth.

“Fuck,” he laughed, flopping back on the bedroll. “Come here.”

Jaskier wriggled up and curled into his side, hand over Geralt’s chest. “Did you mean it?” he asked softly.

“Hmm?”

Jaskier propped himself up so he could look at him properly, blue eyes intent. “About the inn? About wanting me?” He paused, biting his lip. “About wanting me to fuck you?”

Geralt growled, a deep low rumble, pulling Jaskier down to kiss him swiftly. “Yes,” he hissed when they parted. “I want that as much as I want to be inside you.”

Jaskier moaned, tucking his head into Geralt’s neck, “Gods, Geralt. I feel as if I am in a dream, having you speak to me like this. Speaking those words, things I have desired, things I haven’t let myself desire, except in my dreams.” He lifted his head again, “you said you’ve been with men…I…I never would have known.”

Geralt sighed, stroking his fingers through Jaskier’s curls, “do you want to know? I’ll tell you if you do.”

Jaskier thought about that for a moment, brow furrowing a little. “I’ve always been eager for information about you, some for the stories, but most because I just wanted to know you.” He closed his eyes for a moment, “I won’t ask, I know some things are private, but I will listen if you wish to tell me.”

Geralt didn’t hesitate. “Kaer Morhen, home of the Wolves, the place where I…was made. Vesemir took me there after my…mother abandoned me on the side of the road. I was…six, seven. I’m not sure. That was the way it was. All the boys that made their way to Witcher keeps were about the same age. Maybe it was to make sure we were still young enough to be pliable.” Jaskier nodded at his halting explanation. “We trained for hours every day, harsh for boys that age, so tired we would fall asleep at the table each night. Then once we reached a certain age, about fourteen, fifteen or so, they began the…changing of us. That was the prelude to the Trial of Grasses. Making a Witcher isn’t…easy. Most don’t survive it. For each dozen boys less than half are expected to survive the Trial.”

Jaskier hissed through his teeth, “that’s…”

“Fucked up? Yeah,” Geralt muttered. “Making it through, being….changed, it…it made us want to cling to some part of our humanity, almost celebrate. And, we were all young men, with all the urges young men have, only each other to explore that with. The colour of our eyes change with the Trials, an outward sign of what we now were. Mine used to be…brown, I think. Eskel said they were pretty.” He lips twisted in a sad smile. “I was still pretty lanky after my first Trial of Grasses. All long limbs and too much energy.”

“You went through it more than once?” Jaskier asked quietly.

“Mmm,” Geralt hummed. “I was…different. I took to it…well, I guess. A decision was made to put me through it again. My hair turned white after the second time. My hair was brown, curly, a little like yours. It still curls when it’s short.” He inhaled, “I keep it long for that reason. My…mother used to play with it, winding it around her fingers, and I couldn’t bear what I’d become because she’d given me away, I wanted no reminder. The other boys liked my white hair, though. Found it attractive, maybe.”

Jaskier huffed, “well, yes, I would agree with that.” He captured a lock of it that was hanging by his face and tucked it behind his ear. “I like washing it for you, brushing it out, watching it flow like molten silver over your shoulders.”

Geralt gave him a wry smile, “I’m glad you like it. I’ve become used to it, but back before the second Trial, my hair wasn’t anything special.” He carded his fingers through Jaskier’s, “yours is pretty though, so soft.”

Jaskier hummed softly, considering. “Flattery will get you absolutely every where with me, darling, but I do feel that you are perhaps diverting from the subject.” His fingers danced down Geralt’s jaw, “but you needn’t feel the need to speak should you not wish to.”

Geralt believed that, but still, he _wanted_ to talk to Jaskier, wanted him to understand him, wanted to make things clear. “Between the first and second Trials, I…started to experiment, I guess that’s the best way to put it. It was a way to burn off the energy, and it was kinda fun. Blow jobs, hands jobs, that sort of thing.” He sighed, remembering those confused, heady days. “I had sex the first time after my second trial. It was…fuck, it was a revelation. Something I could really _feel_. I liked it, Jask. Either way.” He closed his eyes, “Eskel was my first, and I was his, and no matter how in demand we both were, we always made time for each other. Once the Trials were complete and there were so few of us left we went out on the Path. Each year less and less returned.”

“Eskel is special,” Jaskier murmured softly, just loud enough for Geralt to hear him, though no-on else ever could have.

Geralt pulled Jaskier closer, nuzzling his neck, inhaling. “He is. He went through all of it with me. Lambert joined us not long after, but Eskel was there from the beginning. We watched as the others died, or didn’t come back. He was the closest thing I had to a friend. Before you. Eskel and I, we were thrown together, endured together, but you, you chose me. It confused me.” He sighed deeply, “I didn’t know how to be a friend, not with someone who…who chose me, and could also choose to leave. _Wanting_ you on top of that made me…retreat from it. From you. I wanted you to leave before you got hurt because of me, but I wanted you to stay at the same time.” He stroked his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, smiling when he heard his bard sigh happily.

“I would always choose you, Geralt.”

“I know that now,” Geralt admitted, still in a state of disbelief. His bard loved him. “I never dared do anything about it, I thought…I am so used to being pushed away, rejected, that I learned not to bother. I didn’t want to see that look in your eyes…”

“So you pushed me away first, to make sure you weren’t hurt?” His blue eyes pinned Geralt in place, “and, that you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“Mmm,” he agreed. “Stupid, I know.”

Jaskier chuckled, “I have long known that Roach has the brains of the operation, darling. Yet, I do understand the impulse. The way you have been treated leads you to act as if you don’t care, can’t care. You’ve been protecting yourself from the world, but you don’t need to protect yourself from me, Geralt.”

For the first time in decades, Geralt let himself believe he could have something good in his life, something beautiful and sweet.

Something that wasn’t soiled by the scent of sorrow.


End file.
